Argue
by Spottedmask77
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy's hands were always cold. Opposite of his, Arthur Kirkland's hands always seemed warm. Human names used. T for a bit of cursing and *ahem* other things. FrUK.


**Hello again~! Should I be updating*cough*writing*cough* the epilogue to Twelve Days of Christmas or the next chapter of Wedding? Yes, I should. Eh, but this was already written...and it seemed such a waste for it just to be on my deviantart.**

**I think we all know I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>Francis Bonnefoy's hands were always cold. No matter how long they were stuck in his coat pockets, no matter how close they were to the fire, his hands stayed the same subzero temperature you would find in the icy wasteland of Russia. Not that he would know personally, of course, but from the stories that Ivan told, it sounded like a frozen hell.<p>

Opposite of his, Arthur Kirkland's hands always seemed warm. Again, though Francis didn't know from hand-holding experience, Arthur's hand had connected with his face too many times to count. Not that Francis hadn't deserved it, but nowadays he even welcomed it. He welcomes it all: the kicking, the punching, even the most violent of fights(the record was seven different bones of Francis's broken and five of Arthur's) never failed to put a smile on the Frenchman's face.

Two parts. One hot, one cold.

"France, you bloody idiot, what are you staring at?"

The man's voice brought Francis - _France _- crashing back into reality. Francis Bonnefoy was little more than an alias, a name to the face of the country of his people. The same went for Arthur, otherwise known as England, and quite possible the most pissed off and so abnormally _British _that he was practically built on stereotypes. Even Ivan was a country, in fact _he_ was the frozen hell France compared his hands to.

France was in a world meeting with the G8. Or rather, he had been, as the meeting was now over and the only people left in the room were Britain, Russia(who was 'sleeping') and himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis could see the setting sun.

"I'm just admiring your face, _non_?" Francis smiled sweetly and stretched in his chair. "Ludwig didn't make a new rule yet, did he?"

England bristled. He changed tactics. "I don't see why you insist on calling everyone by their human names, _Francis._ We're not human; and we can't pretend we are."

France took a deep breath and let it out slowly, playing with his gloves. "If you want to know the truth, _Angleterre_, I was thinking about your hands," France smirked. "Fiery, just like your personality, _non_?"

Britain blushed profusely. "D-don't think your pervy thoughts about me, frog!"

"_Non, non, mon amour. _You are the only ones thinking dirty thoughts," his laugh turned into a purr. "Though...now that you mention it..."

The warm hand slapped across his face before he finished his sentence. _When had he come gotten over here? _Before Arthur could withdraw his hand, however, France grabbed it.

"Now, now, _Angleterre. _Hands and faces are not meant to go together that way," France had a mischievous glint in his eyes. With his free hand, he caressed England's face. "You must do it softly. Lovingly, _non_? And then, the other person will lean in-" France did so as he spoke -"and kiss you."

They were nose to nose. France smiled softly, and brought his lips to the Englishman's.

"Ahh - !" England's cry was muffled. His face furiously red, heat radiated off him in waves, warming France. France took this opportunity to slip off one of his gloves, taking the gloved one off the island nation's cheek and bringing it to the back of his head. The other hand (_ungloved, _mind you) slunk underneath England's shirt, and a soft, but icy hand touched his stomach. He yelped and pushed France away.

"S-stop!" Britain stuttered, face still like a cherry.

"Ohonhon~! You weren't protesting before, _Angleterre_!" France laughed, and England flushed again.

"That was before you started..._touching _me with your bloody cold hands!" he looked incredulous at what he had just said. "Do you have any idea how cold they are? It's like you're fucking RUSSIA! I thought you were supposed to be a warm country or something!"

"Excuse me? Do you think you could take your lovers spat elsewhere? I am waiting for China to return for his bag," a friendly voice with a thick Russian accent broke into the conversation. England and France turned to look at Russia.

"Lovers -?!" England spluttered, stopping as he felt one of France's icy - no, not even an exaggeration; England thought he would get hypothermia if France didn't stop touching him - hands grab onto his wrist and drag him out of the room.

"Frog - !"

"Sorry to bother you, Russia! We'll be seeing you the next meeting,_ oui_?" France called, waving goodbye.

"Where the hell are you taking me, wanker?!" England spat as he was dragged down the hallway.

"Home. I happen to know that you took the train here, and they don't run after sunset," France smirked, knowing England couldn't see his face. "A simple _merci _would be nice."

England huffed. "I'm not thanking you. Frog."

But England didn't argue.

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><p>England grumbled and crossed his arms, riding shotgun in France's car. "Okay, somehow you got me into your car without so much as a scratch. Now take me home."<p>

France laughed softly. "_Oui, _Iggy, I will take you home."

"Don't call me Iggy. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"_Pensez rien_," France said, slipping casually into French.

"Don't tell me to not think about..." England said crossly, then trailed off as he realized the tick Francis had pulled. His mouth formed a small 'o'.

"I thought you said you forgot how to speak it," the southern country said quietly, smiling.

"I have! Git," England muttered. He crossed his arms even tighter.

"_Angleterre._"

Britain let out a small yelp and as one of France's hands, both now gloveless, touched his arm. "Put both hands on the wheel, wanker!"

"Oh, so you don't like it when I do this?" France raised an eyebrow suggestively, keeping his eyes on the road and making England blush nonetheless.

"It is very dark out, _oui_? The back windows are tinted and this is a generally soundproof car," France tried to keep a straight face as Britain looked as if he might explode.

"...pervert," England gritted his teeth. France chuckled.

"Again, you are the only one thinking dirty thoughts. I was merely pointing out that you can hit me and yell as loud as you want with that filthy British mouth of yours without the police questioning why you are attacking a beautiful man who has done nothing wrong," France smirked, his hand still on England's arm.

"Nothing wrong?!" England sputtered. "You're a narcissist. And a pervert. And god damn annoying. And French!" Britain ticked off the reasons on his fingers.

"None of these are crimes in Paris," France felt the shorter man's arm stiffen.

"P-paris?"

"_Oui. _Did you really think I was taking you back to London?" he asked.

"You said you were taking me home!"

"Paris IS your home!"

And suddenly, Britain didn't have the energy anymore. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just as long as you don't creep into the guest room in the middle of the night."

"_Angleterre, _you are cruel."

England laughed softly. Then he stopped.

France's hand wasn't on his arm anymore.

It was up his shirt.

"FRANCE!"

"_Oui_?" the country tried to look as innocent as possible while driving and a now quite obvious hand up England's shirt. Said nation was able to lower his voice...and stifle the smallest of moans.

"France," Britain hissed. "Get your hand out of my fucking shirt. You are _driving_. I don't want to get into an accident just because the driver was horny."

"Horny? _Moi?_"

"Don't even try to fucking deny it. Bastard."

"_Angleterre, _are you getting sleepy?" France teased, not moving his hand.

"France. Hand. Out of shirt. Now," England growled.

"You like it!"

"I do not, you frog!"

"Don't even try to deny it," France mocked. The nation tweaked England's nipple...oh, good God, Britain didn't even want to think about it. He shuddered.

"Stop it," he ordered, blushing again. When France didn't stop - England shuddered again - _touching _him, he added, "Please."

France's hand snaked out of his shirt and back on the steering wheel. The hurt in his eyes was clear to the island nation, and he felt a pang of guilt. Guilt and...something else. Almost against his will, Britain leaned against the Frenchman. Almost.

"_C'est mon petit lapin fatigue?" _France asked.

"Yes, frog. I am bloody exhausted," England murmured, snuggling closer.

"So you do understand French," France smiled, unsurprised, as he turned left down a small street.

"No, I don't," England retorted. "I only know basic French; I can't speak it fluently."

"So that phrase happened to be basic French?"

"...maybe."

France laughed softly. "I know you can speak it. Basically everyone knows you speak French."

"How?" England asked groggily.

"French and Indian War, remember?"

"What about it?"

"You spoke a lot of French then."

"Did not."

"Did too. Alfred and Mathieu heard you, not to mention the legion of troops you commanded."

"Matthew...?"

"Canada, _Angleterre,_" France rolled his eyes.

"Hmph. At least he knows English as well," England pounded his fist on his chest proudly.

"Now he can curse in two languages. Oh, joy," France said, stopping the car. "We're here." He unbuckled, noticing England wasn't getting up. France poked his head with his finger. "_Angleterre_?"

"Tired," Britain yawned, grabbing France's hand and squeezing. It wasn't as cold now. Maybe from it's expedition up his shirt... "Carry me."

"Carry you?" France mentally slapped himself for questioning the island nation.

"Just shut up and pick me up, frog. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity." England held out his arms, and the taller male did just that. Cradling England, he smiled. His hands were getting cold again, and he knew that Britain could feel it. He squirmed slightly, but didn't protest.

And France didn't argue.

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><p>"Welcome back, <em>mon petit lapin<em>," France said, kicking his front door open, carrying the island nation bridal style. England only snuggled closer to France's chest. It was dark out, he was tired, and France was warm. Well, except for his hands. But Britain (sleepily) decided to ignore that.

"Stupid frog..." he said, disconcerted. France leaned down to kiss him.

"_Je t'aime, Angleterre_," France murmured. England was quiet. Then, barely a whisper...

"Love you too, frog."

And neither of them argued.

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><p><strong>Is it cheesy? YES IT IS. X3<strong>

**Review?**


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